


Insubordinate

by libertyelyot



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: All your fave paraphilias, D/s, F/M, Frottage, Gloves, Highly unprofessional behaviour, Kinks, Shiny Boots of Leather, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6229342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libertyelyot/pseuds/libertyelyot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your bad attitude gets you reported to General Hux. He deals with you accordingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the Spring, a fic-writer's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of PWP. Definitely not abandoning my other, more epic, Hux fic, but was just in the mood for a bit of pure filth in the meantime.

As always, you hesitate before touching the entrypad. The thrill of fear that has fluttered in your stomach all the way here bursts into full bloom. You savour the moment, shutting your eyes to better appreciate it. Before it can turn to panic, you count to three. Raise your hand and put your fingers to the pad with a confidence you don’t feel.

The entrypad chimes and the door swishes open, admitting you into the vestibule. You wait for the droid to collect you, casting your eyes around the dark, anonymous space. This is your third visit to the General’s private quarters. These sessions started off in his office on the Senior Deck, but nobody’s pretending this is a purely professional arrangement any more.

The droid leads you wordlessly into the inner recesses of the apartment.

“Officer (L/n), sir,” it says.

“Show her in.” His voice is always so calm and controlled. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him raise it, except during his storms of rhetoric on the parade ground. New staff members are often surprised to find all this molten passion pouring forth from the unflappable General Hux, but you aren’t. You’ve known it’s there, underneath the pristine uniform, for quite some time now.

He rises from his leather couch and stands before you, a streamlined vision in black from glossy boots to the horizontal line of his shoulders. When you first arrived, his youthful face and bright red hair made you think he’d be a softer touch than some of the battle-hardened old warriors at the academy. You have since revised your opinion.

You stand to attention, awaiting his first command, which comes – as it so often does – from a leather-gloved hand.

He sizes you up in unnerving silence before holding up two fingers of his right hand.

Immediately, you kneel, clasping your hands behind your back and lowering your eyes to the floor. He circles you for what seems like an age. You watch his boots pass in front of you then disappear beyond your peripheral vision while the hairs on your scalp stand on end.

Eventually, he flicks a hand in front of your face and shows three fingers. You look up, almost ricking your neck in your eagerness to show obedience.

“Better than last week,” he says. He puts a hand beneath your chin, adjusting it slightly. “But still not perfect. Reports?”

You draw a deep breath and rattle off a list of statistics, relating to your performance in each area of your duties this week.

“Well, that’s an improvement too,” he notes, looking down at you impassively. “But when will you hit your targets?”

You and he both know perfectly well that the answer to that is _never_. He deliberately sets them several points above the level of attainability. You know why, and he knows why, but neither of you ever admits it.

Instead, you apologise and undertake to do better next time.

He sneers at you.

“Now where have I heard that before, (L/n)? All right. Let’s get this over with.” He holds up seven fingers.

You scramble to your feet as neatly as you can manage and put your hands on your head.

“As always, (L/n), your task is to maintain your posture without moving a muscle. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” you say, trying to keep the words even, but your chest is beginning to heave in anticipation. You have never succeeded at this yet, and you don’t expect today to be any different.

He comes closer, until he looms over you like a pale shadow. With those glittering eyes above high cheekbones and his full, beautiful lips, he makes you think of some kind of avenging angel. He only needs the wings and the flaming sword.

“Remember what this is all about,” he says, almost in a whisper. “Your commanding officer found you insubordinate. You come to me in order to be reminded of your place, which is _subordinate_. You are here to serve and obey, (L/n). Say it.”

“I am here to serve and obey, sir.” You can never say it without flushing to the tips of your ears. You know he likes to see this, and does everything he can to bring the colour flooding to your cheeks.

He makes a sound of satisfaction and places his thumb against your mouth. The scent of the leather is sharp in your nostrils, provoking a familiar twitching between your legs. His palm is flat at the side of your neck, cold and slick. You keep your eyes to the front and your spine tight. It will take a lot more than this to break your position.

His forefinger trails from the side of your neck down to the button at your collar. He unfastens it and strokes the hollow of your throat. You show no intimation of protest as he commences unbuttoning your tunic from the top to the bottom until it hangs open, revealing your light fine-knit undershirt. He slides his hands inside the tunic and runs them all over your chest, cupping and kneading your clothed breasts while you stand poker-straight and motionless, hands still clamped to your head. His thumbs run along the curves of your bra, burrowing inside, finding your nipples. He rubs the erect buds through the fabric of your undershirt. Even with so many layers between your respective skin, it’s unbearably intense. A zing of erotic shock shoots down to your crotch and you have to grit your teeth so as not to press your thighs together and squirm.

He continues his attentions to your nipples, looking you directly in the eye, until you can’t stem the tremors that threaten to rock you off your feet. He steps closer, sliding his hands down your sides until they reach your hips. He puts his lips on your neck, then lets them drift up to your ear. His breath is warm and calm; he has perfect control of himself and you.

“Steady, (L/n),” he murmurs, as you curl your toes and clench everything. “I’ve barely even started yet.”


	2. Chapter 2

Behind you now, he stands so close that you can almost feel him. He stays like that for a few seconds, then he runs his hands along your arms, ensuring that their angle is precise and your fingers are clasped on your head in a regulation manner.

When he is satisfied with your stance, he reaches inside your undershirt and finds your bra. He wrenches the cups down and pinches your nipples, twisting them cruelly, waiting for you to react. But you knew this was coming and you are proud of your self-control, cheating him of an early victory.

He takes pity on your sore nipples and treats them more gently, but this does nothing to minimise the risk of your falling out of position. Pleasure is just as hard to manage as pain, and he knows it, stroking and palming your breasts with expert touch.

He shoves his knee forward, forcing your legs apart, and lifts it up between your thighs until it rests at their apex. Still manipulating your breasts, he rubs his knee slowly and teasingly over the tightened fabric of your trousers. At first the sensation is too blunt to threaten arousal, but soon your own treacherous juices aid him in his endeavour, causing the material to slip and slide between your lips and chafe your swelling clit.

He lets go of your breasts and takes hold of your shoulders, standing further back in order to replace his knee with the toe of his boot. You want nothing more than to bear down on that tormenting shiny leather upper and ride it, but you keep your head, grit your teeth, straighten your spine and refuse to let him beat you.

“You really are improving, (L/n),” he says, but he hasn’t spent these last few weeks learning the exact location of every rogue erogenous zone on your body for nothing, and he caps his compliment with a sudden sucking bite on the soft skin behind your ear, and that’s it, game over. You half-yelp, half-sigh, your clasped fingers flying apart, twisting your neck to bare more flesh to him. _Please do that again, sir_.

No point asking, though, because he won’t.

He tuts softly, turning you by your shoulders to point you towards the sofa.

He doesn’t need to tell you what comes next. You know, and he sends you on your way with a light slap to your behind.

You remove your boots and socks automatically, but you hesitate before continuing. You hate doing this without being able to see him. Is he watching you?

“Carry on, (L/n),” he says, his voice coming from the doorway. He has been next door, collecting his box of tricks. Your eye glimpses the shiny jet-black casket and you shudder before removing the rest of your lower garments and bending over the arm of the sofa.

You dig your nails into the usual cushion and spread your feet the desired distance apart. In this position, with your spine sloping down into the upholstery, your bare arse is raised humiliatingly high, the focal point of your body. You grip the cushion tightly, knowing that soon you will be biting down on it to avoid yelling out.

“A slightly better performance this week, so shall we say three minutes, followed by twenty with the paddle?” he says. This is not a question, and doesn’t require an answer. If he says that’s what you’ll get, that’s what you’ll get. But three plus twenty is bearable, you think. Your first week, you got way more than that, and the next day revolved around volunteering for any duty that didn’t involve sitting at a desk.

That had been your own fault, though; you cringe at the memory. Having been given the order to strip and bend over, you had looked him right in the eye and asked him, in that tone of voice you were trying so hard to banish now, if he was serious. Of course he was, and he spent a long and painful time demonstrating that seriousness beyond any doubt.

No such rookie error will be made today.

“Yes, sir,” you mutter into the cushion.

“Come on, (L/n), you can get that backside higher for me,” he says, encouraging an improvement in posture by means of a flurry of hard smacks to your upper thighs. You strain to push your bottom out as far as you possibly can. This won’t count as part of the three minutes yet.

Once he is satisfied, he sets the timer on his wristcomm, and begins in earnest.

You always enjoy the first few much more than he probably realises. His leather glove diminishes the impact and gives the experience a deliciously sensual quality that gets you hot and wet between your legs in no time. He takes proceedings at a fast pace, though, and one minute is all he needs to make the jump from pleasurable to uncomfortable.

You feel a spreading warmth cover your cheeks as the smacks echo around the room. Your skin gets tight, then it stings, a little more each time his hand slams down. It isn’t bad enough to make you want to cry out yet, but it’s getting there.

“This is what works for you, isn’t it, (L/n)?” he says, the words jerking out as he spanks you. “This is how to make you behave.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me what makes you behave.”

“A…ah…good spanking, sir,” you manage to say, your breath hitching and releasing around the mortifying phrase.

“A sore arse,” he hisses, going harder and faster than ever. You reach that moment of panic when you are sure your hips are going to buck. You identify it in time and bite down on the cushion, digging your nails into your palms.

The distraction works and you are able to take the rest of the spanking without moving or crying out, concentrating fiercely as the strokes rain down.

“A good colour,” says Hux approvingly, running his heated glove over your overheated bottom. “It’ll do for a warm-up. Now for the real punishment.”

He reaches for the paddle.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

You’ve got this nailed, you think, accepting the paddle like an old friend, pushing out your bottom to meet the strokes in the way he likes.

You are able to count out loud without losing it somewhere in the middle; you are able to pace yourself. You use every memory of past sessions to anchor yourself in a calm, central place, knowing how this will play out, knowing that you can make it through to the end.

Oh yes. You’ve nailed it.

Until the seventeenth stroke, which he deals differently than usual, on an upswing, crashing into the curved underhang of your buttocks. It’s not what you’re used to and it throws you off your stride. You raise one foot from the floor, kicking back, and make a spluttering noise of protest into the cushion.

He pauses. He is waiting.

Fuck! “Seventeen, sir,” you say hurriedly.

Not quickly enough.

“No, _this_ is seventeen,” he tells you, laying on another over the top of the preceding smack.

You breathe through it. Only three more to go.

Except really there are five, because he gives two extra for breaking position and silence.  You count them through, trying your best to ignore the prickling sweat that has broken out all over you. You are hot and sore and insanely tense between your thighs, as if your entire being is concentrated there.

He stops, lays the paddle down on the cushion you’ve been biting into. You kiss it.

“Thank you, sir.” Your voice comes out in a breathy little sigh.

“Hmm, not bad,” he says. He moves towards the box of tricks again, and you smile to yourself at his slightly awkward gait. He is not as unaffected by all this as he pretends to be.

“You can stay there.” You hear him rummaging and wonder what he’ll pull out of the bag today. Your legs are shaking now, particularly the calves, but you wouldn’t dream of breaking position. The paddle in front of your nose provides a very good incentive to do as you are told.

“Now.” He is hovering behind you. You hold your breath. Will he tell you what he has in mind, or surprise you with it? This part of the session is always different, always a new challenge. “As you know, we are here to work on your self-control. Do you remember how bad it was, when you were first reported to me?”

“Yes, sir.” You cringe a little. The way you spoke to Captain Phasma that time…no, that was not good.

“I hope you’re ashamed of yourself.”

“I am, sir.”

“Good. But you’ve learned a lot since then, albeit the hard way.” He puts his fist on the centre of your spine, pushing it down just a little further, raising your arse just a little higher, then he runs one gloved finger down the bumps, over your coccyx and between your cheeks until it reaches your hot, wet slit.

He rubs, slowly and consideringly, backwards and forwards, while you hold your breath and try not to grind on to it or beg for more. You can feel your clit growing, showing him your shameful enthusiasm for his touch, shining up the leather with your juices. Biting the cushion is a good option again.

“Why are you so wet, (L/n)?” he asks.

Ah, the impossible-to-answer question again. Impossible to answer without almost choking with embarrassment, that is.

“I’m not sure, sir,” you lie, knowing as you say it that honesty would probably be a better policy. But you just _can’t_.

“You’re not sure?” Hux isn’t buying this line. “I find that hard to believe. Do you need lessons in how to understand your own sexual response?”

He is the worst, the absolute worst, you hate him. You want him to carry on fingering you. You want him to fuck you.

“No, sir.”

“No?” He takes his finger away from your clit and you make a desperate little whimpering sound, cursing yourself for it. “Then you _do_ know why you’re so wet?”

He pushes his forefinger inside you, sliding in easily, up to the knuckle. You tighten your muscles around him, craving more.

“I suppose…maybe I’m a bit…turned on, sir,” you grind out. He wiggles his finger inside you, testing your flexibility. His thumb draws lazy circles around your clit. Oh Lord. Keep doing that.

“Turned on? You mean you find corporal punishment arousing, (L/n)?” His tone is utterly matter-of-fact, but you are cringing so hard you want to shrivel up and die.

“Perhaps,” you whisper, screwing up your face. He adds a second finger and twists the pair of digits this way and that, keeping up the pressure on your clit with his thumb.

“Only perhaps? I’d say it was a little more definite than that, wouldn’t you?”

He pumps his fingers in and out; the noise this makes is incriminating in the extreme. You can’t exactly deny anything now.

“Yes, sir,” you admit.

“The truth at last,” he crows. “Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it? You enjoy being punished. Perhaps we need to re-order our schedule. Leave the punishment till last, so you can’t get your dirty little thrill from it, eh? What do you think, (L/n)?”

_I think you’re a complete bastard._

“Whatever you think best, sir,” you gasp, losing grip on what little self-possession you had. Something is building in the pit of your stomach, radiating outwards, ready to blow.

He pulls his fingers away from you, then lands a smart little smack between your thighs.

“Self-control, (L/n),” he says. “You need it. I can teach it.”

You almost sob with frustration, rubbing your face in the cushion to try and take the edge off.

“Please, sir,” you beg, but under your breath, so he can’t hear you.

“You didn’t last very long at all then,” he notes, pushing his gloved fingers into your mouth for you to clean them of your juices. “Let’s see if we can do a little better this time, shall we?”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

He has brought you to the edge with his fingers three times now, and each time you have managed, by a complex amalgam of mundane thoughts and fierce clenching of everything, to resist the oncoming surge of orgasm.

You are proud of yourself, and you wonder if he is proud of you too, as he withdraws his gloved digits for the final time. You are sweating, shaking and your throat is bone dry, but you have succeeded in your task at last.

“Well done, (L/n),” he says, and he really does sound quite impressed. “I didn’t think you had it in you. You must have been practising. Have you?”

You don’t want him to know about the furtive sessions in your bunk with a vibrator, so you make a non-committal noise, trusting that he will indulge you in your moment of achievement.

“I think you deserve a reward,” he adjudges. “I won’t ask what you’d like, because it’s obvious enough. But how would you like it?” He pats your bottom, still sore and tight from the spanking, then rubs it absent-mindedly. It feels so good that you moan into the cushion.

“I’ve asked you a question, (L/n). You’ve earned an orgasm, but you won’t get it until you tell me how you want it.”

You’re not exactly sure what’s on offer, and you don’t want to ask, but it looks as if you might have to.

“When you say how I want it, sir, do you mean…?”

“Just tell me what you want,” he says, and although your face is still buried in the cushion, you have a feeling his teeth are clenched.

How ambitious should you be?

“I’m just not sure exactly what’s on the table, sir,” you say. “As it were.” You muffle a giggle, imagining Hux spread-eagled and naked on a desk.

“I am _entirely_ at your disposal, (L/n).”

Well, in that case…You draw a deep breath and rush out the words, in the hope that saying them quickly will reduce the embarrassment factor.

“Will you please fuck me, sir?”

He laughs triumphantly and slaps your hot arse.

“Gladly. Positions?”

“Like this is fine, sir.”

You certainly don’t want him looking at your face, watching your expression as he works on you. That would give him an extra level of power over you, and he has more than enough already.

His reply is the jingle of a belt buckle and the unpopping of fasteners. One leather hand holds you by the hip, the other guides his stiff cock to your willing opening. He glides it in between your lips for a moment or two, gathering moisture, before lining it up in readiness. You push yourself back, inviting him forwards.

“You need this, don’t you, (L/n)?” he whispers.

“Yes, sir.”

And then you get it, all the way in, stretching you wide in one slick stroke. He hisses with satisfaction, both hands now gripping your hips, making sure he can’t advance further by even the tiniest iota of space. You revel in your fullness, lifting your face from the cushion and grinding a little, just to make sure he really can’t get any deeper.

He reaches for your hair, pulls out the pins so your regulation bun snakes down your back, and grabs hold of the resultant ponytail. Your scalp erupts in pins and needles, but these are soon forgotten when he starts to thrust.

Controlling your movements with one hand on your hip and the other tugging at your hair, he establishes a punishing rhythm, each long, fast stroke banging the tops of your thighs into the sofa arm. His lower stomach slaps into your sore bottom, reawakening the sting with each drive forwards.

You wish upon wish that you could be an observer as well as a participant, standing at a distance and feasting your eyes. Instead, you have to imagine the sight of his long legs pressed into yours, still in their boots and uniform trousers, apart from where they have slipped down to reveal a glimpse of his pale arse cheeks, flexing and pumping into you.

You shut your eyes and moan as one of his hands moves from your hip, snaking down over your pubic triangle then curling fingers between your lips, ready to rub in rhythm with his thrusts.

He lets go of your hair and pushes underneath your top instead, seeking out your breasts with blind, desperate fingers. His gloved palm closes over one of them, circling over your nipple.

“Is this…what you wanted…(L/n)?” he pants, his mouth down close to your ear.

He takes his fingers from your clit and makes a lunge for something on the table nearby. It’s cold and smooth, like a thin pebble, as he slides it over your clit and pushes it firmly so that it remains in place when he takes away his hand. A second later, it begins to vibrate, warming up against your flesh and sending shuddering waves of pleasure through you to connect with what’s going on in your vagina.

Now his hand is free to delve between the furrow of your bum cheeks, using your own juices gathered on his fingertip to lubricate his exploration of your back passage.

The multiple stimulation throws you into a maelstrom of intense, competing sensations. Is it the rubbing of your nipple, the buzzing of the clit vibe, the finger up your arse or his relentless, thorough fucking that you should be concentrating on? Which of them is making you…

Your legs buckle and you grab the cushion tight as a wave of orgasm so strong it frightens you sweeps out from your inner core into the furthest reaches of your body.

Sounds come from you, words perhaps, but if they are, you don’t know what you’ve said, or even if it’s your voice saying it. White light, white heat.

Your bones melt and your body slumps over the sofa like a rag doll. He is still riding you, even as the last sweet remnants of your climax recede, but now his time has come. He puts both hands on your shoulders and pours it into you.

The sound he makes is precious to you; you snatch it into your ears and try to take an aural snapshot for your memories: General Hux at a moment of vulnerability. It could be unique.

“Gorgeous little slut,” he slurs, resting his head on your shoulder, sounding as spent as you feel.

After showering and dressing again, you report to the General, who is sitting on his sofa – the sofa he fucked you over – reading reports. He looks up as you stand to attention.

“At ease, (L/n),” he says. “Come and sit down.”

You take a seat beside him, wincing slightly at the twinge in your bottom as your trousers tighten over it.

“I have a report on your conduct here from Lieutenant Harmer,” he says. “She seems to think it has improved dramatically over the last few weeks.”

“Does she, sir?” You try to read it over his shoulder, but he angles the datapad away from you.

“Absolutely. I appear to be getting through to you. Would you say that was the case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Obedience, respectfulness, deference, all several hundred per cent better than they were.” He puts down the datapad and turns to you. “She suggests these sessions may no longer be necessary.”

“Oh.” Your chest tightens, a little shooting pain on the left side. “Really, sir?”

“So she says. What do you think?”

“I…I’m not sure, sir.”

“Not sure?” His smile is knowing, perhaps a little hopeful.

“I mean…I’ve found them quite…helpful, sir.”

He gives you a long, appraising look.

“So have I,” he says at last. “Very helpful. If I were to sign you off with Lieutenant Harmer, but arrange to continue these meetings on a more private basis, what would you say?”

“Private, sir?”

“Yes. I mean…I think you know what I mean.” He is irritated by his sudden tongue-tie, glaring at you intently. “Don’t make me spell it out, (L/n).”

“You mean pleasure rather than business, sir?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

You smile at his uptight face. You’d like to kiss it. Would that be too much?

“I’d love that, sir.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Thanks for reading~


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